


Between Silence and Kisses

by helloalexwinn



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloalexwinn/pseuds/helloalexwinn
Summary: "It should be him kissing her, holding her, dancing with her. But it isn't." Illya/Gaby





	Between Silence and Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of The Man from U.N.C.L.E

 

In the end, it is Napoleon who kisses Gaby first.

It nearly throws Illya into a rampage.

Their current assignment is in Paris, where Gaby and Napoleon are pretending to be a wealthy married couple, and Illya is their personal bodyguard. It makes sense that they would kiss — their cover must be believable, after all — but it is torture to watch. It should be him kissing her, holding her, dancing with her.

But it isn’t.

It’s the Cowboy, with his charming grin and heavy drawl. He says something and Gaby laughs, a real laugh that’s accompanied by a real smile, and Illya tries to remember a time he has managed a similar reaction from her and comes up empty.

Anger ripples through Illya, a caress from a well known lover. Slowly, one finger begins to drum, though nobody can see it because his hands are neatly clasped behind his back. Even so, Illya feels it, entirely aware of his habit because he is in a place where he _can’t_ lose control, where it would be a disaster if his vision turned a bit too red and his fists found something fleshy to sink into.

He forces himself to calm down, to tuck away the anger for when he is back in his hotel room and he can break something and roar without risking either of his partners.

Across the room, he spies Napoleon and Gaby watching him quietly, a single question written in both of their faces. A muscle ticks in his cheek, but it is only when he meets Gaby’s concerned eyes that Illya puts a name to the emotion he has been feeling.

Betrayal.

* * *

The ride back to their hotel is silent, with Gaby and Napoleon both sitting in the back seat as Illya drives.

Though this is hardly the time for such a conversation, Napoleon opts to stare out the window, seemingly fascinated by the gleam of Paris. Gaby keeps her focus on Illya, however, and every time he glances in the rearview mirror, his eyes find hers, and he flicks them forward like he has been burned with fire. After several minutes of silence, Gaby leans forward and snakes a hand between the door and the side of his seat, gently squeezing his side when he does not offer her his hand. Illya sucks in a breath, his knuckles tightening around the steering wheel.

It is an intimate gesture, or feels like it should be, but he is still reeling from her kiss with Napoleon and his kiss with anger, and so Illya shifts enough to escape her hand.

Gaby’s hand darts for his side again, and almost grasps it, but fails because Napoleon has tugged her arm back and murmured, “Not now, Gabs.”

When Illya glances in the rearview mirror again, Gaby is focused on the lights of Paris, and Napoleon is watching at him with an almost gentle look, the kind a close friend gives when they are concerned. He knows something is wrong — perhaps even knows what _is_ wrong — and is looking to Illya for confirmation.

Illya ties his eyes to the road once more.

* * *

They are in the elevator before anyone speaks.

“You okay, Peril?”

Illya, who has taken this brief moment of solitude to lean his head against the wall and rest his eyes, hums an affirmative.

Napoleon doesn’t press the matter, and though his eyes are not open, Illya can feel both Napoleon’s and Gaby’s gazes on him, taking in every detail. Illya lets them, because he has purposely arranged himself this way. Head resting on the wall, eyes closed, shoulders slightly slumped. He looks more tired than anything, and that is what Illya wants them to think.

He’s certain Napoleon doesn’t buy it — the Cowboy has some idea about what is wrong with Illya, and perhaps can even sense the anger that is still in his veins, but that doesn’t matter. It’s more important that Gaby believe his ruse, because he does not particularly want to discuss just how hurt he is from her actions. It’s rather pathetic that he’s hurt by her actions at all, because he is Illya Kuryakin, a Russian KGB agent, and the idea that his feelings have been hurt by a German chop shop MI6 agent is pitiful. He can only imagine the beating he would receive if any of his handlers ever found this out.

The elevator dings when they reach their floor, and Illya is alert and focused and tall as they exit, looking like the dutiful bodyguard he is pretending to be. When they are standing in the open doorway of Napoleon and Gaby’s suite — Illya’s room, and it is in fact a room, is directly across the hall — both of them turn to him once more and Illya feels like a young child about to go off alone for the first time and is saying goodbye to his parents.

“Right,” Napoleon says, as if he has committed himself to the fact that he will not understand Illya’s cold shoulder tonight. “Goodnight, Peril.”

“Goodnight, Cowboy, little ch—” the endearment lodges itself in Illya’s throat, betrayal flooding his system, invading every crack and crevice that is Illya Kuryakin. When his mind grasps that he is feeling betrayal, anger takes over, and he idly thinks that he has never seen this particular shade of red before. “Goodnight.”

“Illya,” Gaby says, but Illya doesn’t let her say more than his name. With a gentle shove, she is inside the room, and Illya grabs the door and shuts it before she can turn around and protest. By the time she reopens the door, Illya is already locked inside his own hotel room and has taken a particular interest in the coffee table.

* * *

There is a notable change in the atmosphere when Illya enters the suite the next morning.

Gaby is still getting ready in the bathroom, but Illya watches as Napoleon, pretending to read the paper, keeps flicking his eyes toward the bathroom with a rather alarmed look.

“Is something wrong?” Illya asks, and though he said ‘goodnight’ last night, this feels like the first thing he has said in a long while. Napoleon appears to think so as well.

“No,” Napoleon says, dragging the word out. “Feeling better, Peril?”

Illya narrows his eyes. “Yes,” he lies, because he would rather just complete this mission and bury it away in his memories. “Are you certain nothing is wrong?”

“Only as certain as I am that you’re feeling better.”

Illya nods his head. He knows that Napoleon had long ago learned exactly how to read him, and though he does not always like that, there is some comfort into it. It helps that he can read Napoleon just as well — it makes their teamwork, as begrudging as it is, quite effective.

“And…” Gaby’s name, just like her nickname, stops in his throat, “how is she?”

“Confused,” Napoleon admits. “We both are. Something set you off last night. But I know we won’t get a clear answer about what is really bothering you. Or, at least, I won’t. She might.”

Illya frowns, silently saying, _I think not_.

“I think so,” Napoleon says, and Illya is struck again by how well Napoleon can read him. He will have to work on that, then. “You’re soft around her.”

“I am KGB agent, not kitten.”

“Physically, maybe, but other than that it’s doubtful,” Napoleon says through a laugh.

“What’s doubtful?” Gaby asks, exiting the bathroom. She is wearing a bright orange dress, and Illya finds his memories drawn to a time when they were engaged, his hands tracing her thigh, holding her in the rain, terrified he might lose her. Illya wonders if she knows exactly what she is doing — he is fairly certain she does.

“Our Russian friend here — ” Illya shoots the man a look that could freeze hell “ — was thinking he would have a nice, easy day cooped up in this hotel room. I told him it was doubtful.”

“It is,” Gaby agrees, coming to a stop by Illya. “I was actually thinking about going for a walk.”

Illya rolls his eyes to aid Napoleon’s story, before making a sweeping gesture for her and Napoleon towards the door.

“Actually,” Gaby says, and Napoleon stills from where he had been getting up, a wince on his face, “I was thinking it could be just you and me, Illya.”

“No,” Illya says immediately, now understanding why Napoleon had been so apprehensive earlier. He was certain they had discussed his odd behavior, but Napoleon had most likely warned her not to push him. True to herself, Gaby hadn’t listened, and now they were here.

“It’s important I am seen around the city, Illya.”

“It is important you are seen with your husband.”

“It could do more good for us to be apart,” Gaby says. “Perhaps somebody will be willing to be a little more talkative with only me around.”

Illya is perfectly aware that the jab is meant towards him, but he ignores it, repeating, “No.”

“I’d like to go for a walk.”

“No.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Gaby snaps, her voice steel. “And, considering you’re my _bodyguard_ , I suggest you listen to me.”

A muscle ticks in Illya’s cheek.

Even Napoleon, who had settled nervously on the arm of the chair, looks shocked, but recovers quickly enough to be near their sides should anything happen.

Illya doesn’t let anything happen — not yet, not so close to her.

“Illya,” Gaby breathes, and Illya hears the regret in her voice. Even she knows she crossed a line drawn in the sand. “Illya, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I meant—” 

“It is nothing,” Illya spits, the pain in his chest assuring him it is definitely not nothing.

Gaby tries to say more, but Illya is out of the room before she can stab his heart again.

* * *

The silence returns with a wicked grin, settling over the three of them to the point of agony. They only speak if it concerns their op, and Gaby and Napoleon occasionally mumble things to each other, but any time either of them tries to speak to Illya, they only manage to open their mouth before the silence invades and chokes them once more.

Illya keeps his lips sealed.

He constantly plays chess, losing himself in the game and providing another barrier between himself and conversation. If he and Gaby were alone, he is certain she would play her music once more, dancing goofily and trying to coax him into joining her. They aren’t, however, and Illya is both grateful and regretful. If they were alone, they would have to discuss it, and Illya does not want to do that, but if they had been paired from the very beginning, Napoleon would not have kissed her first and she would not have hissed the word bodyguard and Illya would not feel as bruised as he does.

It is an odd combination of feelings.

* * *

 

“Peril,” Napoleon says, stepping onto the balcony beside Illya. They have another party to attend, another dance where Napoleon and Gaby will laugh and smile and kiss and Illya will be off to the side, ever the dutiful _bodyguard_. The words and images are still burned in his mind, causing Illya to tighten his grip on the banister a little more. “She didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Illya says, and he does. He knows that Gaby hadn’t meant to say it like that, hadn’t meant to dangle it above him like he was a mutt that wanted meat. But she had, and though it had stung, Illya was now using it as a cover more than anything. Let them think he is upset about the insult and not the kiss that should’ve been his.

“Then why are you ignoring her? You’ve hurt her feelings quite a bit.” Illya arches an eyebrow. He had hurt her feelings? What had she done to his? “Yes, I know, she or I or someone did something that pissed you off, but really, the cold shoulder you’re giving her is a bit drastic.”

“I am bodyguard.”

“You just said you understood she didn’t mean it!” Napoleon exclaims, and Illya is certain that if the Cowboy’s hair were not so meticulously styled, he would be running his fingers through it and scattering it wildly.   
“I do,” Illya says before Napoleon can continue his tirade. “But, for cover, I am bodyguard. It is better this way.”

“You’re our partner, Illya. Stop giving her the cold shoulder. She didn’t mean it. We’re all equals.”

The two stare at each other for several long moments. Napoleon is being honest — or, as honest as he is willing to be to ensure success — but Illya still finds himself shaking his head. Perhaps they are all equals. In the suite, it is easy to believe they are. Three partners working towards a common goal. Outside of the suite, whether they be on the city streets or at some gala or ball or party, they are no longer equal.

Outside, Illya is their lesser, but only because he is the more vicious protector.

It is for that same reason Illya thinks that they are not equals, inside or outside. Gaby has become significant (precious) to him, and even Napoleon has found a spot in Illya’s mind and heart that nobody will ever touch. Death would claim Illya long before anybody hurt Gaby or Napoleon. And it is because of the lengths that Illya would go to protect these two important people that Illya knows they are not, in fact, equal. He is their lesser because both of them hang over him as targets, and it would take one well placed shot to destroy Illya entirely. Napoleon and Gaby do not need him to be a target above their own heads.

The only problem with this philosophy is that it means he would be their bodyguard on more assignments, and while that itself is not an issue, the thought of her kissing Napoleon again is.

“I am bodyguard, like I said,” Illya says at length. “It is my job to protect you.”

“That still doesn’t mean you have to be cruel to her.”

“If it keeps her safe, I am okay with it.”

He is.

* * *

A week later, they are in the airport in Paris, waiting to return to London and the safe house. Illya has been only slightly more talkative in the past few days, and though he has long forgiven Gaby, he finds himself still hesitant to talk to her alone. He knows that she will pester him about what is wrong if she gets the chance, and Illya would rather not give her that chance.

The kiss still drives him mad, but the anger has turned inward, forcing Illya to blame himself for not kissing Gaby first. They have been engaged twice and married once, yet he has never kissed her, telling himself that even a kiss is a private thing between lovers. Napoleon clearly didn’t understand that, but it is Illya’s fault for not having acted first.

His anger becomes even worse when he remembers that he cannot think of a time when he has made her genuinely laugh.

“Well?” Napoleon asks, coming to stand beside Illya. In the window, Illya observes the man, noting that his suit conceals the bandages running along his arms. Their mission had not been without its rough patches, but that was how their missions went. Napoleon had had several lacerations along his arms, but none had been remotely serious.

“What?”

“Are you going to talk to her now?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder to where Gaby sits, unscathed, in the airport terminal. “And don’t give me that look. You’re the one with your arm in a sling.”

Illya shrugs, his eyes flicking to his arm in the window. Some idiot had pointed a gun at him and shot, but it was a poor shot because the only damage was to a small section of muscle in his arm. His arm was in a sling which was never a fun experience, but Illya had suffered far worse countless other times. “It is nothing.”

“Whatever you say, Peril,” Napoleon says, but Illya knows that if the Cowboy were in this situation, he would be saying it was nothing as well. “You never answered my question.”

“I know.”

“So you’re not going to give me an answer?”

“No.”

“No as in I don’t get an answer, or no as in you’re not going to talk to her?”

“No.”

Napoleon heaves a sigh before stalking back to Gaby and sitting once more. 

* * *

“Will you ever speak to me again?”

Illya turns to face Gaby, raising an eyebrow in the process. She is watching him with those big eyes and a slight pout, and Illya is unsure whether or not this is intentional. Perhaps it is, if only because she knows he will cave.

“Of course.”

“Good,” she says, smiling ever so slightly. “Will you speak to me now?”

Illya frowns, and notes that Gaby’s face falls a bit as well. Yes, she knew exactly what she was doing. Damn the woman and her charm.

“There is nothing else to do,” he says at length, because it’s true. They’re on a plane, the two of them beside each other towards the back and Napoleon several rows ahead. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“Good,” she says again, her smile returning briefly before fading into a wince. “And you know I didn’t mean what I said?”

Illya grimaces. “Yes, I know,” he murmurs.

Gaby relaxes a bit more, and becomes bold enough to thread her fingers through his. “And are you going to tell me what really had you so sensitive?”

Illya’s face morphs into a full-blown scowl, but Gaby, for once, doesn’t back down. Instead, she squeezes his hand a bit tighter, and Illya idly wonders when the runner became a fighter.

“I am not sensitive.”

Gaby scoffs. “Illya, you’ve been grumpy about something for over a week! And grumpy is putting it kindly. Crabby or pouty is a better term.”

Illya scowls again. “Be careful, little chop shop girl.”

Instead of cowering or occupying herself with something else, Gaby grins. It lights up her face even brighter than Napoleon’s comment had, and Illya realizes that he does not need witty comments to make Gaby smile. He has made her smile countless times by saying things that only he would say, calling her names only he could call her.

“I’ve missed that,” she murmurs, leaning her head towards his a bit. On instinct, Illya leans in, fully prepared to kiss her before he remembers that they are not a couple, nor pretending to be a couple, and it was a kiss that had got them into this predicament to begin with.

“You kissed him,” Illya says, drawing his head back and rearranging himself in his seat.

“What?” Gaby blinks several times, as if she has never been refused a kiss before. Interrupted, obviously, but refused, never.

“You kissed him.”

“Napoleon.”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she murmurs. “ _Oh_.” Once again, her face lights up with a grin and there is an infectious giggle slipping from her lips. “It was part of our cover, Illya.”

“We did not kiss for our covers.”

Gaby playfully swats at his shoulder. “We were rudely interrupted several times, if I recall correctly.”

“There were other opportunities.”

“You’re upset that I didn’t kiss you first,” she teases.

Illya scowls, facing forward once more, annoyed that after everything he has suffered through, all the anger he has endured because of a kiss, he is now also being teased about that very kiss. His pride can only take so much.

“That’s ridiculous!”

Illya blows a quiet breath between his teeth, imagining the torment he will receive from Napoleon later when Gaby tells him what has had Illya in such a fuss. Before he can say anything to defend himself, however, Gaby has taken his head in her hands and kisses him in the exact opposite way she had kissed Napoleon.

Where Napoleon and Gaby’s kiss had been calculated and sweet, their own kiss is clumsy and fierce and loving.

“Better?” she asks, her lips moving against his.

“No,” Illya murmurs. “The last person you kissed was him.” Gaby moves to argue, but Illya grins. “I need another.”

Their second kiss is far better.

 


End file.
